My Mother had character. She was everything my Father wasn't; primarily responsible and dependable. She was shy and uncertain about herself and didn't have the huge personality which my Father possessed. But she was a rock, always there, always trying to hold everything together. Although not drop dead gorgeous, she was pretty and had a figure that every woman would die for. She had been born in Los Angeles to a carpenter and a World War I war bride. Her Mother had been born and raised in Northern England and had married and come to the United States with my Grandfather in 1918. Their first child was a son and my Mother was born two years later. The third child, a daughter Hazel, was born several years after my Mother. They grew up in the twenties and thirties and like most families of the time, barely eked out a living through the depression. When my Mother was eleven, her Mother died of complications caused by not receiving medical care for a goiter. My Grandfather was heartbroken and the children lived for awhile with his sister, their aunt. Eventually they would be a family again, with my Mother cooking, cleaning and taking care of household chores while attending high school. My Mother would later tell me that she thought that she had married my Father to get away from home.